


Arched with majestic sky

by amberfox17



Category: Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Class Issues, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Historical, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU based on Forster's Maurice. It's 1912 and young Lord Hiddleston is back from university and wondering what will become of him after his love affair with a fellow student turned sour. It that wasn't enough to deal with, he's having problems with an uppity gamekeeper called Hemsworth, who seems to want something from him, but Tom's damned if he knows what it is...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arched with majestic sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [umakoo (Sikuriina)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=umakoo+%28Sikuriina%29).



> Birthday fic for umakoo! Based on the famous window scene from Maurice, but with a younger, shyer Lord Tom and a rough around the edges gamekeeper Chris. For anyone who worries about that sort of thing, don't worry, Tom is a terrible shot, and utterly failed to shoot any bunnies :)

_‘There was something better in life than this rubbish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend..’_

-          E.M. Forster _, Maurice_

Tom sits at the open window and gloomily stares out into the darkness. It’s raining, yet again, and he is probably going to catch his death of cold, but the miserable weather matches his mood and if he doesn’t allow himself one small irrational indulgence he is going to explode.

It is not normally his nature to be melancholy and sit sighing at windows, but then, it is his nature that is the source of his woes. The conversation with Benedict earlier today had been short and to the point, and quite rightly so, for neither of them want a repeat of the ugliness that had marked their last encounter. He was not surprised by the news of Benedict’s upcoming nuptials, given that one of his reasons for abandoning their unique friendship had been to pursue a fiancée and the normality such a thing promised, nor had he hoped for a sudden renewal of the affections Benedict had once so ardently sworn to him.

Those days are done and in truth he is glad of it, for the halfway measures of a schoolboy romance had not been enough for him, no matter how he pretended they were. He is a man grown now – just about – and living in a limbo between pals and paramours had been slowly killing him, his adoration of the beloved ground down into sadness and resentment as his friend revealed himself to be so much less than Tom had hoped for. No, his misery is not that Benedict is now firmly beyond his reach, but that he sees no such safe harbour for himself. Benedict had been so openly enthused with his bride-to-be, so happy with her agreement to his proposal, and so clumsy in his hints that Tom should hurry to find a woman for himself; yet the thought of it leaves Tom as cold as it ever has.

He cannot commit himself to such an endless lie and yet what choice does that leave him? Eternal loneliness here at the estate, one day naming his sister’s son as his heir, occasionally embarking on brief, dangerous liaisons in the city that can only end in disgrace, like the young Lord Risley, sentenced to six months imprisonment for corruption of his social inferiors?  Tom’s usual sunny optimism is no defence against such thoughts, and even the possibility of therapy, offered in subtle advertisements in the paper brought to his room each morning, brings him little hope for the future.

The rain continues to pour outside, indifferent to Tom’s suffering, forming deep, glistening pools on the roof of the conservatory below Tom’s window. He can hear the water seeping between the glass panels even through the dull roar of the rain; the room is half-ruined with damp and spillage, and even though there is a ladder propped against the roof, precious little work seems to have been done to prevent further damage. His mother says that now he is home from university he must take a firm hand with the servants, too long accustomed to the lack of a Lord since his father’s death; in the next breath she tells him she has fired the cook, the gardener and the gamekeeper and appointed three new staff in their place.

Tom had dutifully gone to meet these new employees, nodding politely at the formidable-looking Mrs. Russo, the flustered Mr. Windsor and young Hemsworth who, despite his name, seemed about the same age as Tom and, unusually, was just as tall and perhaps broader. Hemsworth had been the only one to try and make some conversation with Tom, which he had quietly endured and at last rebuffed; his mother seemed less than pleased with the gamekeeper’s impertinence but had confided that he was only to be a short-term problem, since he was set on emigrating to Australia in the next few weeks. Tom wondered why she had taken him on at all in that case, but apparently he was the son of someone’s brother or the brother of someone’s son, and rather than listen to the explanation of the tightly-woven net of obligation, reputation and scandal that defined local village life, Tom had merely agreed with her assessment of the man as too clever by half.

Tom cares little for the business of the estate, and even if he were minded to play the young Lord, he sees no chance of it while his mother holds the reins of power so firmly in her gloved hands. She will not take him seriously until he takes a wife and delivers her the grandchild she wants, and since that is never going to happen Tom has every confidence she will continue to rule with an iron fist until her eventual death, and therefore feels himself at leisure to mope around the estate.

Evidently, his mother has other plans, the first of which turned out to be having Tom thin out the rabbit population that threatened to decimate both the kitchen and ornamental gardens. Tom has no fondness for hunting, another in a long list of character flaws, but had dutifully trudged through the woods and over the fields for most of the day, taking pot shots at the wily bunnies and fending off Hemsworth’s attempts to draw him into conversation, until at last the rain came in and he could retire to the house to change for dinner. Hemsworth had dogged his heels all the way there, quite unnecessarily; these are Tom’s lands and he knows them better than some upstart gamekeeper. He had thought perhaps the man was angling for a tip and had offered five shillings, a generous amount, he thought, given that the man didn’t shut up for most of the shoot.

Hemsworth had looked at him oddly when he’d proffered the coins, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shaking his head mutinously. “I don’t want your money, Sir,” he’d said and then paused, looking intently at Tom for a long, uncomfortable moment. Tom had been furiously annoyed at his cheek and in no mood to try and puzzle out the man’s meaning, and had stalked off without a word, feeling Hemsworth’s eyes on his retreating back all the way up the drive. The difficulties of managing uppity servants are precisely what he wants to avoid for as long as possible, and he’d stewed through dinner, unable to decide on what course of action to take.

He’d decided on nothing, as ever, and had retired to bed early in a foul temper; alone in his room, however, his anger had bled into frustration and now into this deep, prolonged sadness, leaving him feeling hollow and empty, utterly detached from the world he must wander in for the rest of his days. He makes a poor sufferer, for he does not find enjoyment in his ennui as many of his poet friends had, but he does not know what other path to take.

Tom sighs again, and runs a hand idly through his hair, noting he is slightly damp from sitting too long by the window. Such bitter musings make dull company and he would gladly be rid of them, so he turns off his lamp and crawls into bed, looking only for the brief respite of sleep. He tosses and turns for a while, rest eluding him, until the entire household has joined him in taking to their bed and all is quiet and still, bar the ever-present dripping of the rain.

He must fall asleep, for quite suddenly he is waking, keenly aware of the squeak of the window as someone attempts to stealthily slide it back down. Someone has climbed in through the window – is in his room – is approaching the bed and climbing on to it, someone large and masculine and oddly gentle, pulling back the bedcovers to straddle the prone Tom who can only blink in shocked surprise.

“It’s alright, Sir,” Hemsworth says, tugging at Tom’s nightshirt to expose his neck and chest, strong hands pushing Tom down, sweeping across his body with confidence and Tom – Tom doesn’t know what to do, what to say; Hemsworth has been nothing more than a servant to him since he returned home and yet now he is a real, looming presence in his bed, warm and powerfully muscled and intent on covering Tom’s neck with rough kisses.

It’s nothing like the chaste, controlled pecks he and Benedict had exchanged in their college rooms, nothing like the admittedly vague descriptions in his books discussing Greek love; the scruff of Hemsworth’s stubble scrapes over his skin and his fingertips are calloused where they dig into Tom’s arms. He smells of damp earth and sweat and a lingering tang of gunpowder, but when Tom gingerly lays a hand on his shaggy hair it’s surprisingly soft, free from pomade and unfashionably long, curling a little where it lies over Hemsworth’s collar.

“I know, Sir,” Hemsworth is saying, as Tom lies hesitant beneath him, “It’s alright,” and he sounds so sure that Tom dares to slide his hand from the top of Hemsworth’s head to his cheek, Hemsworth’s bristling beard tickling his palm until he turns his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Tom’s fingers. Tom gasps and jerks his hand away and Hemsworth stills.

“Sir?” he says. “I ain’t gonna – you want this, yeah? ‘Cause I want you bad like but I won’t – I won’t do nothing you say no to, I ain’t like that.”

This is his chance to refuse, to send the keeper away, because he can’t want this, not with another man, not again, and certainly not with a gamekeeper of all things. He should throw the man out for his brazen presumption, could even have him arrested for daring to assault his employer’s son so, have him sent in chains to the colonies he thinks so much of. The silence drags out and he sees a sudden fear come into Hemsworth’s eyes as Hemsworth realises this too and he lets go of Tom as if he had been burned, clearly preparing to flee the room and likely the estate.

“Stay,” Tom blurts out, hands closing on Hemsworth’s shoulders before he’s consciously aware he’s made the decision. “I do – I want -” He doesn’t have the words for what he wants, but Hemsworth relaxes and smiles at him and he smiles back hesitantly.

“You scared me ‘alf to death there, Sir,” Hemsworth says, nervous laughter rumbling in his chest. “Thought I was done for. But I means it, Sir. You tell me what you wants, and I’ll do it, I’ll do anything you like, just so long as I can touch you. Been wanting to ‘ave you ever since I seen you, such a fine gentlemen, all elegant and proper like.”

Tom traces the width of his shoulders in lieu of a response and feels Hemsworth shudder, almost like a horse, he thinks absently as the man’s broad hands settle on his hips again, still and waiting, but burdened with such intent that Tom can barely think for the desire rising in him.

“Tell me, Sir,” Hemsworth coaxes. “Please. I likes your voice. Tell me what you like.”

“I don’t – I don’t _know_ ,” Tom says, wishing that he was the servant and Hemsworth the master, that he might just be able to give himself over to the exercise of the secret knowledge everyone bar him seems to have already acquired. He knows what he likes of himself, having indulged in the solitary vice many a time as a relief from hours spent in Benedict’s company, allowed to hold him close but nothing more, and he knows from crude banter what the sin of Sodom is, though not quite how one achieves it, his own experiments always ending in abrupt, painful failure; surely there is something between, something two men can do in affection and joy? “I’ve never been so far as this before. I do not know what else there might be to ask for.”

“You ain’t never fucked no-one?” Hemsworth asks, sounding shocked and an entirely different kind of heat blooms across Tom’s cheeks at the vulgarity and his shame.

“My romances have always been platonic,” he says stiffly and Hemsworth frowns at him. “We did not…unite. Physically,” Tom clarifies.

“What, not even with a girl?” Hemsworth says, and Tom shakes his head. Understanding flashes across Hemsworth’s face then, to be replaced with something like wonder, only tinged with a dark, desperate hunger.

“I’ll show you,” Hemsworth says, voice thick; “I’ll teach you, Sir. I know what you’ll like.”

“Thomas,” he replies, a little helplessly, “you can – please, call me Tom,” because what else he can possibly say to that, to the lust Hemsworth isn’t even trying to hide, to the excitement welling up in him at the thought of finally acting on the desires he’s tried for so long to ignore, to bury under the finer feelings of admiration and fondness Benedict had allowed him to express.

“Tom,” Hemsworth growls and he rolls his hips, the proof of his desire for Tom pressing hot and heavy against Tom’s thigh. “I’m Chris.”

“Chris,” Tom repeats and he smiles at it, suddenly easier, for having Christopher Hemsworth in his bed is shocking and frightening and an affront to his breeding, but Chris – Chris could be the friend he has been dreaming of all his life, the intimate companion he has been denied and now knows for certain that he wants, for the touch of Chris’s skin against his is more thrilling than any of the restrained kisses he had chanced with Benedict, never mind the dull and dutiful embraces of those girls bold enough to try him despite his indifference.

“You ain’t ‘alf beautiful when you smile,” Chris says and Tom would like to tell him the same, for he is, in the way Tom has dreamed of since reading his Greek myths, golden and handsome, like Apollo or perhaps Achilles, but all his allusions and metaphors die unspoken for Chris puts his mouth to his and he realises he has not until this moment even known what a true kiss is. 

He expects the slight roughness of Chris’s chapped lips and the gentle pressure as their lips come together, but he doesn’t expect the spark deep in his groin as Chris moans against him, nor the way he instinctively opens his mouth, tries to draw Chris even closer to him. Chris’s tongue in his mouth is a new and exciting sensation and one that unleashes something fierce inside him, the promise of lips and tongues elsewhere on his flesh, of their bodies locking together, and this is not the staid, poetic love he has convinced himself is still within the bounds of propriety, but something sensual and physical and rooted entirely in his body, which seems barely within his control, bucking up into Chris’s as he clutches desperately at his broad shoulders and huge arms.

Chris kisses him harder, pressing him down into the mattress with sheer enthusiasm, and as he does so their lower halves come into contact, Chris’s spread legs bracketing Tom’s. Tom is only wearing a thin nightshirt, now open at the neck, and he can feel Chris’s arousal through his trousers, rubbing over his own. He arches into it, wanting more, wanting everything, and Chris pulls away to laugh quietly as Tom keeps kissing him, licks at his jaw and lips, frantic for contact, afraid that this will all fade away if he lets Chris go, even for a second.

But Chris sits up, out of Tom’s reach and Tom whines in frustration until he realises Chris is unbuttoning his shirt and then he surges up to help and of course only gets in the way, tugging at the wrong parts and generally being a nuisance, but he doesn’t care, not when the damn thing is finally off and he can start kissing Chris’s chest, licking over the defined muscles and nipping at the stiff nipples, with no conscious aim other than to keep Chris gasping, his hands tangled in Tom’s curls, not guiding his head but clinging to him as if he too needs an anchor in this storm.

“Christ,” Chris swears as Tom moves lower, drawn to where his trousers cling to his hips as if by a magnet, “you don’t need much teaching,” but when Tom reaches for his buttoned fly he catches him by his hands and pulls him back up. “Let me,” Chris says, swallowing up Tom’s protests with another deep kiss before taking the hem of Tom’s nightshirt and slowly lifting it. He keeps his eyes on Tom’s face and Tom forces himself to be calm, to be still, to smile reassuringly at Chris as he lifts the shirt up and tosses it to the side. Tom sits there, naked and exposed, and he couldn’t be happier about it as Chris’s gaze trails from his face to his feet and back, taking in everything.

“You’re a stunner,” Chris tells him, and he says it as if Tom is the most wonderful thing he has ever had the privilege to see, part awe and part excitement, and that’s so – so _stupid_ , when Chris is the one who looks like a Michelangelo statue come to life, when all Tom wants is to climb into Chris’s lap and stay there forever.

Tom looks pointedly at Chris’s trousers and raises an eyebrow; it seems a shame that Chris has to momentarily scramble off the bed to push them down and kick them off, but as he comes back Tom is glad of the few seconds to appreciate him fully, to look hungrily at the expanse of skin revealed, a paler gold than his sunkissed face and arms, to dare to look at the juncture of Chris’s thighs, his manhood huge and swollen, because after those few seconds Chris is on him again, pinning him down, and now their bodies line up perfectly, a perfect jigsaw of limbs and muscle and he kisses Chris’s throat, flicks his tongue over his jugular, feels the blood roaring in him and through him, and fancies even their heartbeats are falling into the same rhythm.

“It’s alright,” Chris says between laboured breaths, “you can touch me, Tom, I want you to, go on,” and so Tom lets his hands slide from Chris’s waist down and across until they come to rest on his buttocks, where he squeezes tightly and Chris grunts and pushes against him. Tom does it again, fingers tight on the muscle and flesh, pulling Chris’s hips and groin forward, and his breath hitches at the feel of all that power under his hands, dizzying thoughts of kissing and biting and – and something more flashing through him.

“You like my arse, then,” Chris huffs, and Tom can’t find it in him to be embarrassed anymore.

“Yes, quite,” he says, pushing his own hips up as he brings Chris’s down, the sensation wonderful but not quite right. Chris brushes an open-mouthed kiss over his lips and takes over, rolling his hips in an easy rhythm instead of Tom’s jerky pushing, so that their bodies rub alongside each other instead of colliding together.

“Like this,” Chris says and Tom falls into it, working alongside Chris instead of against him, and it’s better, so much better. There is sweat pooling where their bodies meet and they slide against it, against each other, and Tom moans into Chris’s ears, broken words and jagged sighs, hardly aware of what he is saying, feeling the muscles of Chris’s perfect arse flex under his hands as he grinds into Tom.

He can’t imagine anything better but then Chris pushes a hand between them and closes it around – around them both and he moans, a little too loudly.

“That’s it,” Chris says, but he doesn’t sound any more in control than Tom feels, his voice breaking as he strokes them both. “D’ you – d’you want to put your hand on my cock? You don’t ‘ave to, I just -” but Tom doesn’t even have to think about it, snakes his hand down and wraps it around – around Chris’s cock and it’s hot, much hotter than he expected and so much like his own and yet not, in a way he can’t explain, not as Chris’s hips snap forward at his touch and the breath hisses out of him. “Tom,” he groans, “Tom, you’re so – you’re -”

But Tom is done with talking; he knows now what he wants and he shifts Chris’s grip to his own cock only, keeping his hand on Chris’s, their arms twisted awkwardly together and wrists bent, but it’s still the sweetest pleasure he’s ever known, and they’re a grunting, writhing mess now, hands working frantically at the other’s cocks, panting into each other’s mouths. It’s desperate and wonderful and Tom is almost there, toes curling, body straining, but it’s Chris who’s overtaken first, with a muffled noise Tom can’t describe and won’t ever forget, his seed spilling over Tom’s fist and spraying across their bodies.

It’s amazing, to see Chris’s dazed, ecstatic expression and know that he has put it there, but his cock is insistent in its demand for similar satiety and he mouths at Chris’s throat and whispers, “Please, Chris, please.” The sound of his voice rouses Chris and Tom barely has time to let go of Chris’s spent cock before Chris is working him expertly, now entirely focused on giving Tom pleasure, his movements practised and sure, up the shaft and over the head, twisting his wrist as he does so, and it reduces Tom to incoherency almost immediately.

Tom claws at Chris with his clean hand, the other fisted in the bedsheet, so close he can almost taste it, his pleasure rising like a tide, sweeping up his body and along his cock, dragging at him like a whirlpool and then Chris murmurs in his ear, “Come for me, love,” and he’s falling, he’s drowning, everything is roaring around him and he grits his teeth lest he scream. Chris kisses him through the aftershocks, tender and familiar, and as Tom lies boneless and blissful he grabs Tom’s discarded nightshirt and cleans them both off before flopping down next to Tom with a grunt and pulling the bedcover over them.

“I can’t believe no-one’s done that with you before now,” Chris says, chucking him under the chin affectionately, propped up on one elbow so he can look down at Tom. “Pretty thing like you. First time I saw I you I thought – I wants him, all for myself.”

“I’ve waited so long for someone like me,” Tom confesses, stroking Chris’s beard, wondering if Chris would let him curl into him and be held. “I thought I was the only one in the world who felt this way.”

“What, that likes a bit of rough trade better than a doxie?” Chris says, grinning. “There’s plenty of us out there. You just need to learn how to spot the signs. I ‘ad you pegged right from the start, but you couldn’t see me, could’ya?”

Tom freezes, blood running cold. Is this – is this all he is to Chris? A tumble, a rut in the dark and nothing more? He had thought he had found a friend, a companion, someone who wanted both the pure affection he still wants to call true friendship and the heat and passion that drove men like him to disgrace. And what does Chris mean, the signs? Is his degeneracy so obvious? Does he mean to blackmail him?

“And just what did you peg me as?” he says as coolly as he can, trying to remember that he is a Lord and this man his gamekeeper, and that he therefore has control here. He does.

“Tom?” Chris says, trying to lift Tom’s face up, forehead creased as he peers at him in the dim light. “Tom, shit, no, I didn’t – look, I ain’t got your fancy way of talking. I just meant – we ain’t the only ones like this, it ain’t nothing to be scared of, if you keeps the right company. I’m – I’m glad you ain’t ‘ad nobody but me, and I wants to keep it that way – I wants to keep you, if you’ll let yourself be kept by the likes of me.”

“Oh,” Tom says, and then again, “oh,”, giddy with relief, as Chris pulls him in close, wrapping himself around him, and Tom curls into him, resting his head against Chris’s broad chest.

“You ain’t got to be scared of me,” Chris says, his chest rumbling as he talks. “I ain’t letting you go, not ‘til you says you’re done with me. It won’t come from me.”

“I won’t,” Tom says, warm and comfortable and happy, the happiest he’s ever been; “I’ll keep you too, Chris, I shan’t part from you nor be parted. You have my word.”

“I do love the way you talk,” Chris says fondly and Tom laughs, a soft, breathy little laugh born of the small space between them, an easily bridgeable gap, if only one was to try and he will try, will find a small space for them somewhere in the wide world, where they can live and laugh and embrace under the endless expanse of the free and open sky.

 


End file.
